Burning Bridges
by YourFriendlyNeighborhoodGeist
Summary: "Meanwhile, somewhere else in the galaxy..." From the universe and author of "Of Worth," a series of slightly irreverent one-shots wrapping up and introducing supporting cast blooms. Rated M for the gamut: violence, gore, language, sexual themes, etc. This will only be updated when "Of Worth" is on break, but we hope you enjoy it anyway!
1. Whatever Happened Part 1

_A__ note from Your Friendly Neighborhood Geist:_**  
**

_As promised, I present for your amusement Part 1 of wrapping up Doctor Trixie. There was more than I expected here, so I'm breaking it up into two parts, but this is settled and I saw no reason to keep it from you all.  
_

_Now, as I've mentioned to some of you in what is probably the worst-kept secret of all time, Ellie was made as a playable character for a Dark Heresy game, meaning that I worked extensively on back-story with (and borrowed a bunch of NPC's like the Inquisitor Lord from) the Game Master. He's supported me from square one (Ellie got an extra fate point, too!... Though I had to burn it last session...) and finally made himself a FanFiction account, so all hail TurnoftheSoul!  
_

_As always, I ask that if you read, you leave a little review, and in return I wish you all the best,  
_

_-G_

* * *

**Burning Bridges**

Whatever Happened To That Hot Floozy Doctor? (Part 1)

You know that awful prickling sensation between your shoulder blades? That sure sense that something is watching and waiting just behind you, and if your back is anywhere but to the wall it'll manifest as a sudden, mortal blow in three… two…

That feeling hadn't woken Trixie Gunn in months. That was, of course, not to say that she hadn't felt it while awake: many times it was warranted, and many times it was not. "Warranted" is to say that there was legitimately something watching her. In the grand scheme of things, that "something" was almost always "someone" and "watching her" was invariably "staring at her posterior." To be fair, one could hardly blame those someones, considering that to even the most discerning of connoisseurs, it was one of the more lovely specimens aboard. "Not" was slightly more difficult to classify; since the time of her Sanctioning, the good doctor had ever felt (despite knowing it purely ridiculous) that some part of her that had been found wanting and excised during her training was lurking, waiting for a moment's weakness on her part to both attack her and cause a disaster the likes of which hadn't been seen since the unfortunate psyker incident of M.41.833 on Valetudor. The horror stories from the upper classmen on the hospitalier planet on which she'd done her residency were enough to assure her that offing herself was possibly the kindest mistake she could make.

The point was that, despite knowing that a great many people were watching her bum as she walked past and feeling a moderately disturbing paranoia regarding intangible forces assuaged only by keeping her back to the wall, that feeling of being watched hadn't _woken_ her until now. Her eyes opened to face the darkness of her room, adjusted almost immediately, and focused on the shadowed figure standing at the foot of her bed. Detail subsequently made itself known as her senses divined more with each passing millisecond.

This was a man, wearing a black body glove, with broad shoulders and impressive arms and the sort of narrow waist that hinted of hard, compact muscle; he had been watching her sleep, and now he was watching her watching him; his stance was one awaiting attack, as though he expected her to hurl herself from the bed and attempt to claw him to death. This, of course, would have been ridiculous on her part, taking into account that first, as a biomancer, she had several significant alternatives to brute force; that second, as that she had been alone and asleep in her private quarters, she was wearing nothing more than a bedsheet; and primarily that third, if this man had wanted to attack her, he could have easily done so – perhaps fatally – before the sensation of him watching her had roused her. It was prudent for her to continue warily, but mortal danger was apparently not primary on the docket for tonight.

She carefully rearranged her sheet to cover her more salient features while propping herself up on an elbow and extended her psyche; telekinesis had never been a strong suit, but she had enough of a grasp of it to flick on the light switch from across the room. As she did so, her sweet backwater drawl broke the awkward silence with an almost businesslike, "Please, take a seat," and once light was forthcoming, she gestured to a storage ottoman pulled near the vanity bolted to the wall. The man didn't move, and she sighed, passing a hand across her forehead before raising her chin to wait for him to speak. She admitted there was a certain theatric flair to this entire ordeal but for the sake of the Throne, it was five bells into the middle watch and she had a complex surgery slated for five hours from now.

The man's voice was unemotional, had a baritone, full timbre that could (she was sure) be pleasant (if ever used for something other than frightening women in the middle of the night), from behind the blank mask as he informed her, "In six hours, crew absence will be noted. Two of them. There is no evidence. Even if you find evidence, there is no evidence." His hand lifted quite suddenly to the neck of the suit (causing her to stiffen with alarm for the better part of three seconds) and peeled the fabric aside to reveal the electoo of an Inquisitorial agent between tattoos of chains at his neck and further down his hard chest. One of her brows lifted. This was not at all what she had expected. "You're being requisitioned. I am to remain here without notice until such time as the ship makes port next in two weeks, where we will both disembark and you will begin your new service to the Ordos."

She regarded the man for a long moment before scratching a small amount of gound from the inner corner of her eye with the nail of her ring finger. "Right," she acquiesced, "so… not here for drugs. Outstanding." One might note that earlier mention had said the sensation of being watched had not woken her for months. The previous instance (and the two before that) had been one much like this, except instead of a mechanically murderous Interrogator standing at the foot of her bed, it had been some crewman or another addicted to opiate-like pain medication or this or that substance for its pleasant side-effects, demanding more of it. This was almost a welcome relief. Almost. She only wished he could have waited until morning and not interrupted her rest.

"Spare blanket's in the linen by the head," she indicated the direction from her door with a vague gesture, "You passed the couch on your way in. Make yourself at home and I'll wrangle some breakfast at a decent hour… you know, when normal folk wake up." She yawned heavily before adding, "And kill the light on your way out. Apparently you're good at things like that." She could tell that for all of this man's professionalism, the silence that ensued was stunned. Concealing a smug little quirk to the corner of her mouth, she quite deliberately lifted the sheet to shroud her shoulder, turned onto her side, and closed her eyes to go back to sleep.

After perhaps half a minute the light turned off and she heard the door slide shut.

* * *

The next morning when she rose, she had completely forgotten about her visitor. What she hadn't forgotten was that there was very little worse than performing spinal fusion surgery first thing in the morning on an empty stomach, so she threw a short, soft old robe about her shoulders to ward off the chill of shipwide-regulated temperature without bothering to tie up the front, left her sleep-tangled mass of blonde waves in its rats nest, and somewhat blearily padded her way to the kitchen. She cracked the door of the refrigeration unit and pulled out a carton of juice, lifting it directly to her mouth (it wasn't as if she had to share, and using a glass only created more dishes to clean in the end) before freezing in place. Over the edge of the carton, she'd seen movement and it was then that she remembered that there was a Throne Agent on her couch.

Said Throne Agent was still wearing the black body glove and matching mask, though the latter was pulled up past his nose (she supposed this was to facilitate ease of breathing while sleeping); he was half-covered in a pink and white paisley patchwork blanket; he was staring directly at her, and his mouth was hanging open. She lowered the juice carton slightly, shifting her gaze down her divested front as if to confirm the half-conscious, niggling theory that the entirety of her high, over-generous breasts, the Sanctioning brand in the hollow beneath one clavicle, her tight, tiny waist, and a wide stripe of smooth femininity, hip, and extraordinarily long leg was openly available for this stranger's perusal. She looked back to him to find his mouth still open, still half-masked, still with a pink blanket, still motionless and gripping an armrest on her sofa, and she promptly allowed the absurdity of the situation win out. Her twanging laughter rang through the small space, causing the most interesting jiggling to ensue in the region between her neck and navel, and she set the juice down to avoid spilling it.

This apparently catalyzed the man to pull the mask down (with vehemence as if _he_ had been the one exposed), and lift his chin, turning his face directly forward to regain his composure. Of course the good doctor seemed to find this reaction even funnier and bent forward slightly, laughing harder, covering half her face with one hand and pressing at a stitch in her side with the other. This had certainly never made the list of, 'anticipated life events for which to be prepared,' and even if it had crossed her mind, this would probably still be the best response. Luckily, after a moment she heard a chuckle from across the room, which soon flowed into a free, uninhibited, helpless, full laugh. For the briefest of heartbeats (as it went on for quite some time) there were echoes of hysteria, but they were gone before she had opportunity to truly be concerned, and the two finally gained composure.

"So," she offered, buttoning and belting the robe, "…eggs?"

The man paused, gave a nod, paused again, and at last drew his mask off. Her sharp turquoise eyes scanned his face for only a second and then she turned to the stove. As she busied herself mixing powdered eggs, back almost squared to the room, her eyebrows lifted and mouth pouted into an appreciatively assessing moue. Skipping over the fact that he had done a creepy sneak-into-her-bedroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing (in which, she was sure, she, too, would soon be trained, considering it was a very _Inquisition_ sort of tactic), and that he had admitted to deliberately creating two absences in the crew (again, this didn't surprise her in light of Inquisitorial affiliation), that was not the sort of face one relegated to the couch with a battered, pink paisley blanket.

She pulled a spatula from a hanging rack, scrambling in some fairly potent spices that reminded her of home, and employed and unused section of the pan to grill slices of bread left over from her baking spree two days ago. In the meanwhile, she glanced over her shoulder at the shock of cropped black hair and chiseled features to find ice-blue eyes watching her in return with something almost like bafflement. As she turned back, a corner of her mouth lifted, knowing that sensation of a gaze affixed to her arse would ensue in three… two…

She plated the food and faced him with the sort of smile "that made men tend to do stupid things" (there was a sudden wrenching in the area of her heart and she brutally shoved it down to avoid bursting into tears). She approached the couch with breakfast (knowing that despite having been washed, that pink blanket probably still had the smell of clean little girl embedded in it, _Don't think about it, don't think about it_) and handed it to him, setting a glass of juice on the end table for him. Clearing her throat, she prefaced, "You already know'n all, but," she offered her hand to shake, "Trixie."

He stared almost perplexedly at her hand for a moment and she realized as he did that one of his eyes was augmentic. She bent slightly, a twinge crossing her brow as she began to inspect the reconstructive work done around it, but he interrupted her by taking her hand with a glance up, an almost roguishly charming grin, and "Gavin. Gavin Hortz."


	2. Whatever Happened Part 2

**Burning Bridges**

Whatever Happened To That Hot Floozy Doctor? (Part 2)

* * *

"Gentlemen! You can't go in there!"

"This is a sterile area you haven't gone through decontamination-"

"Doctor! Tell these men that-"

"I told them you would see them when you were done operating but they wouldn't listen."

Two of her interns were trailing two uniformed officers, marching across the small room directly for her. Taking a step back from her work, she called, "Stasis." A field came up around the operating table to preserve the patient and the progress she'd made, and she pulled her nose mask down, revealing red lipstick standing in jarring contrast to the world of white medical equipment. Holding up her gloves to indicate a handshake would be out of order she greeted the men, "Officers, I'm about two-thirds through a three-hour spinal here. I understand that whatever you have is pressing, but if there's any way at all we can put this off for just a bit, I'd appreciate it."

"Doctor Gunn, two members of the crew are missing, it is our highest priori-"

Well, seemed like Gavin Hortz knew what he was talking about after all. She cut the man off with a smile and a no-nonsense twang, "Ensign, in case you hadn't noticed, we are on a ship. They can't have gotten far. Now: I am gonna finish fixing this man's spine, and _then_ I will meet you in my office. Magdela," she addressed one of the interns, "would you please show them there? Thank you, doll." Turning back to the table and pulling up her mask, she again called out, "Stasis," and the field dropped.

* * *

"You were the one to inform them of their daughter's mutation, correct?"

She was in her office sitting across from the two ensigns, one leg crossed over the other and leaning on the arm of the chair, out of scrubs and back in her lab coat. Trixie Gunn had learned early the truth of the world: that even the most authoritative of men usually had a small – not blind, per se, but _dumb_ – spot to properly presented (that was to say _confident_) sexuality, and she _knew_ how to exude that in her favor. Right now it entailed sucking absently on the back of a pen and making a considering humming noise; she noticed thyroid cartilage bobbing from a hard swallow in one throat. That was good. She wanted them too distracted to notice any nervousness (or gloating) on her part.

She removed the pen from her mouth with the faintest 'pop' and elaborated, "When Miss Reiker began to psychically express, she was brought to me for evaluation. That didn't take long," she gently traced the visible edge of her Sanctioning brand, fingertips lingering absently at her lapel. "So all that was left was to tell her parents."

"How did they take it?" The first ensign (Macklin, his name tag supplied)'s eyes were deliberately avoiding her and fixed to his report, pen poised to write.

"Better'n I expected, honestly," she switched the cross of her legs and tapped her cheek thoughtfully with the pen. "Quite starched in the britches, though," that caught his attention, and their eyes met over the desk for a second as the corner of her mouth slightly turned up, "so it shouldn't come as a shock."

Macklin was silent for a moment, gaze still locked with hers, until his partner (watching the interaction somewhat guiltily and obviously greener than the fields of her homeworld at investigating) stammered, "Perhaps they – do you think that –did they –"

"I offered visitin' rights, Ensign Hallsey, before the wyrdling was transferred to the Black Ship. I offered counselin' in a missive after that. Both were spurned. I haven't seen'em since. Now: if they're missin', I can guarantee it's not because of distress. I'm sorry, gents, but you're chasin' the wrong line."

Macklin met her eye for a long moment, and finally nodded. "If you can think of anything else…"

"I won't hesitate, darlin'," she assured him, and rose to walk them to the door. "And boys," she was smiling ever so sweetly, "if you ever barge in on a surgery like that again without intending to put the churgeon in question down, you'll be spending your peak years irrigatin' the onboard sewage. Clear?"

* * *

Ten hours, four surgeries, six cases of some awful rash being passed amongst the children, and three routine physicals for clearance forms later, Trixie Gunn was home from work. In a whirlwind of movement, she whipped her coat off, tossed it with careless accuracy onto a peg by the door, and threw herself bodily onto her sofa before noticing that the Throne Agent was still there. The blanket had been spread over the back of the furniture, unfolded, and she wasn't quite sure he'd actually _moved_ in all the time she'd been gone. Far be it from her to begrudge the man a vacation, though.

She drew her knees up a touch, unbuckling the ankle straps on her stiletto pumps and toeing them off. "You, sir," she asserted, tossing the shoes through the tiny gangway into her room, "did the universe a favor."

He was staring at her with a sort of confused fascination and replied automatically, "The actions of the Inquisition are the will…" he paused, realizing that his answer had nothing to do with her comment, then shook his head and sighed. "What?"

Methodically flexing and pointing her toes and rolling her neck, she affirmed, "That man was a colostomy bag among douches."

He regarded her for a moment and rather matter-of-factly shared, "You know, I don't even know who he was. Or what he and his wife did." When she raised her brow at that he explained, "I never asked."

"Do you wanna know?" She had stopped all movement and seemed to be looking _through _him - _inside_ him.

He seemed to think about this for a long moment, and finally, determined, nodded.

"Reiker," she supplied with a shrug, "both Lieutenants. They had a little girl. Awful clever, sweet as you please, _itty _bit of a thing… well, she started actin' funny at night, finally got so bad she tore up her room without layin' a finger on anythin' and _then _they figured somethin' was up. Brought'er over to me and it doesn't take more'n a glance to know she's just about burstin' with warp energy. No easy way to break it to 'em, but he acts like I told him mess is outta meatloaf on a night he's in with the misses, for all he cares. I give'em a chance to say goodbye, then, and he tells me he," she imitated a stuffy, accent-less tone, "shouldn't care to cause histrionics."

She had gotten up off the couch and moved into the kitchen, pulling out a few things with which to begin dinner when she at last continued, slower and more thoughtfully, "Thought fer sure the ma'am would come back later, but a week went by and not a peep from 'em, and when we finally docked for transfer I can't tell you how disappointed with her I was. Hoped they never bothered tryin' for another little'un if that's how they felt about the first. And now there's no reason to worry on that account." She seemed to find that inexplicably satisfying and began humming to herself as she stirred this with that, content to leave the story where she had.

Some minutes later, when she turned to him to ask if he preferred rice or mash, he was still staring at her, stunned. She imagined that this was the expression he'd had last night before shutting off the light in her room, and it lit a cozy little flame within that sense of satisfaction to keep it warm. Just as she opened her mouth, there was a buzz at the door. Curious, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and moved to address it, throwing a quirked brow and a quick gesture to get out of sight to her couch's current occupant. Carefully, she cracked the door to check who it was, and subsequently opened it less than half way, using her form to fill the empty space.

"Thad," she greeted her second intern with a warm, wide smile as she leaned against the door frame, "what can I do for you?"

"Doctor Gunn –"

"Trixie," she corrected with a friendly quirk, crossing her arms beneath her chest, "not workin' an' all."

He nodded dumbly for a moment before she raised both brows to prompt him and he scrabbled, "I just wanted to see how you were after those officers came. Are you in trouble?"

She laughed at that and assured him, "No, no, I'm fine. They just had a few questions –"

"About the Reikers?" His dark eyes were shining earnestly in his pale, olive-toned face.

"I forgot how quick scuttlebutt moves."

"I heard they're gone. One of the tech-priests noticed a blip in one of the surveillance logs that coincided with an air-lock opening and –"

"Thad," she cut him off, hoping that the man on her couch hadn't been listening too closely to the conversation, for the intern's sake. "Listen, I'm sure the staff'll figure out what happened to'em. Ad-mechs haven't reported any problems, so it don't affect us. I don't know 'bout you, but I don't want any more officers givin' me the probity. Just keep your nose outta it, right?"

He considered that, then nodded his buzzed head. After a moment of thoughtful silence he continued with a nervous, "Hey, since I'm here… are you going down to mess? I wouldn't mind the company, and maybe we could–"

"Sorry, darlin'," one corner of her mouth lifted ruefully, "already started cookin'. I'd invite'cha in, but I believe you might have a couple'a surgical reports to write up – I know I've got a few ta mark."

"Oh…" his hopeful smile fell, "yeah, yeah you're right. Of course I do. I'll um… see you in the morning, then."

"Have a good night, Thad," it might have hurt him if she hadn't been so genuinely nice about it. "Plenty'a rest."

"Whatever the doctor orders," he grinned before turning and retreating down the hall.

She carefully closed the door and turned to face her sitting room with her back pressed against the steel. The Throne Agent was standing in the hall with a pistol drawn. Eyeing it carefully, she informed him (unnecessarily, of course, since he must've been listening), "He's gone."

The man stared at her for a long moment and finally nodded.

* * *

The next evening she came home from work late, as usual, to find him still on her couch. She wasn't sure exactly why that surprised her, as that he had said that he'd be there until their next port; perhaps it was that aside from slightly awkward conversations, there'd been no interaction, or perhaps that despite the fact that she'd been requisitioned, she was still intimidated by Inquisitorial presence in her Throne-damned living room.

As she was heating up leftovers, she heard him from across the room, "Tell me about her."

She paused, looking over her shoulder with an eyebrow quirked. She had no idea what he was talking about, and demonstrated this with a slight shake of her head and a confused, "What abou' who now?"

"The little girl," he was staring at something distant, his strong brow slightly furrowed.

Still not understanding, she queried, "What about her?"

"How was she special?"

Trixie Gunn made a soft snorting noise and asked almost incredulously, "…Special?"

"What about this specific girl necessitated those deaths? Don't get me wrong, I'm relieved that they were no saints…"

Ah – she was beginning to follow where this was going. Contritely, she replied, "Now that I can't tell ya. My uh," she sniffed hard and forced her voice higher, softer, because it was threatening to crack. "My bet's on she'll bite it in the holds before the Oriens even reaches Terra," Throne it hurt to say it, even to think it, and she didn't want this man seeing that. She forced a smile and carried one of the reheated plates out to him.

As he took it he shook his head, "No, I don't think so. I've never seen a hit for a psyker's parents before. Watching orders, yes – to see if they pop out another one. No, I'm thinking you don't mur-" he cut himself off, but she knew his heart meant 'murder,' regardless of his correction to, "eliminate them unless they made something you don't ever want the possibility of repeating, regardless of how infinitesimal. Something seriously terrible – or, I'm betting, seriously special. My master is the cautious sort."

Her chin and brows both lifted at that. 'Cautious'? That was a new extreme of caution. Of course, she'd wanted to punch the self-righteous Lieutenant in the jaw until he grew a heart, but from what she understood, the Reikers had been tossed from an airlock. That was about as cautious as you got. She considered for a moment that whatever this shadowy, abrupt Inquisitor the Throne Agent served had done with the girl, something had led back to Trixie Gunn landing an improbable job with the Ordos. Distracted by this, she twisted the bottom of her hair a bit and asked, "What does he look for, then? Think is 'special'?"

Gavin Hortz scrubbed his face with his hand, perhaps not realizing it as a loaded question, "Typical things, really: he likes to see power, intelligence, strength, resourcefulness… they sound like your average qualifiers. He looks for the gold standard. And then, I think even more, he's got to see a desire – a _need_ – to serve. It's what brought him and all his people in –"

He was continuing to say something, but she hadn't heard it. There was a sort of ringing white noise in her ears as she processed that, remembering holding the girl close, repeating the words the big man had crooned to her in the holds as she'd wept with fear for her life, the steel it had forged in her heart then, and in cobalt spinel eyes too big for the six-year-old's face when she uttered what had become the cornerstone of her faith. She could still smell the clean blonde curls she'd pressed her lips to and whispered fiercely to live and die worthily before crying out as the life was wrenched from her protective grasp. There was a hand at her shoulder.

"Hey," that unfairly attractive face was peering up into hers with something that resembled concern, calling her back to reality, "I didn't mean to upset you with that –"

"You didn't," she assured him with a small smile, her hand coming to cover his on her arm. "If anything, you gave me hope."

He looked unsure for a moment, as if he didn't really believe that; her smile spread, though, and the corner of his mouth twitched as the mistrust melted from his eyes. Finally, after a long moment, he took a big breath and nodded, leaving the air between them thick with that last spoken word.

* * *

_A note from Your Friendly Neighborhood Geist:_

_Well, that was certainly the longest thing I've posted and it's **still not done**! I just kept realizing there was more and more I needed to mention in this interlude so it's growing and growing. Next part should be the last one, I swear, we're almost across this burning bridge/out of the woods/whichever awful metaphor you'd prefer.  
_

_Also, sorry this took so long, I've developed some pretty nasty bronchitis, so I've been on cough syrup with codeine and sleeping like Snow White, except instead of true love's kiss I've got work to get up for. I've also been working on the next chapter of Of Worth, which I'm not going to wait to post if I have inspiration to finish it before (Part 3).  
_

_So stay tuned for **Romance(ish)! Action! Gratuitous Onboard Baddie-Murdering Sprees!** and even possibly some **Plot!**  
**  
**All the best, remember to review!  
_

_-G  
_


	3. Whatever Happened Part 3

_A note from Your Friendly Neighborhood Geist:_**  
**

_I beg you all forgive me, my dears, for taking so long with this. Sometimes inspiration is a tough thing to come by. So everyone thank TurnoftheSoul for threatening to stand over me with a whip and make me finish this tonight. This is, indeed, the last installment of Burning Bridges relating to that hot floozy doctor. I'll now be free to return to Ellie's story without this hanging over my head (though perhaps you've noticed Chapter 11 is up? Or perhaps not... I haven't gotten a_ _**single** review for it...). I do hope you enjoy this wrap-up, and my only consolation for your patience is that this is literally **twice as long** as the longest chapter I've ever written (which was Chapter 11 of **Of Worth**... have you read it yet?).  
_

_We'll be back to your regularly scheduled shenanigans soon enough, don't worry, Ellie's too tenacious for me to give up on her.  
_

_Drop me a line and tell me what you think!  
_

_-Geist_

* * *

**Burning Bridges**

Whatever Happened To That Hot Floozy Doctor? (Part 3)

She padded from her room two bells into the midwatch the next morning, taking care to make as little noise as possible in case the Throne Agent had actually fallen asleep last night. When she'd retreated to her bedroom, she'd left him sitting on the couch, seemingly lost in thought, and her final look back had absorbed the detail of the bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes, the dull, hollowed cast to the chisel of his features, the nervous fatigue slumping his broad shoulders.

He wasn't asleep now, and one glance at him in her kitchenette (hovering over a pot of recaf that looked like it could melt the armor off a strike cruiser) told her he hadn't been all night. She approached the cupboard next to him, pulling down a mug for each of them, and held his out with a tentative smile and a soft, "Hey."

"You're up early," there was a forced lightness to his voice as he poured out the thick brew, leaving no room for sugar or cream in either cup.

"Yeah… Got a surgery to prep for that none'a the interns ever done, so…" She ran her fingers through her the hair at her crown, taming it down into a bun and knotting it. "Breakfast?"

He placed the percolator down and held a cup out to her with a slow nod.

Shortly, as they sat on collapsible stools at the small table that folded down from the wall, eating amicably despite the ungodly hour and the length of her upcoming workday, she asked lightly, "Is the couch uncomfortable?"

He didn't seem to follow the question and replied, "No, it's fine." The small furrow at his brow registered his confusion.

"You just haven't slept since ya got here." She shrugged, picking up a forkful of what had been tinned fruit, "I was gonna offer my bed while I'm at work. You know, if ya thought it might help."

He looked at her sharply, then, affirming what the shadows beneath his eyes and his drawn countenance had indicated. "It's fine," he repeated stiffly, and went back to his meal.

"I've never been told that I snore, but if I've been keeping you up-"

"It's fine," there was a growl in his timbre as he leaned forward, hands on the table and slightly out of his seat, the move obviously meant to intimidate her into dropping the subject.

"It's obviously not," she, too, leaned forward, both her hands on the table by her dish as her voice came calm but inexorable. "Who's the doctor here? Who studied medicae for fifteen years before takin' an eight-year residency with the Order of the Torch in one of their hospitals treatin' what was left of Imperial Guard units after they got their asses kicked? Who scrabbled up through the hierarchy of medicae staff on this floatin' tub to become the Vice Chief Medicae Officer? Who's got the damned sense to recognize what's goin' on with you and who the frak has the qualifications to work on addressin' it? Only one person in this room and sure as the good Throne is gilded, darlin', it ain't you."

He was silent for a long moment: a long, dangerous moment during which the Vice Chief Medicae Officer of the Lacertus was (ironically) slightly concerned for her health, having perhaps pushed the Throne Agent too far. Her jaw was steeled, though, chin raised defiantly, and she watched every micro-expression that flickered across his face. He finally let out his breath, his hands retreating from the table. "I see them," he explained with a sort of quiet terror that struck her heart. "Every time I close my eyes I see them."

"The Reikers?" she searched his face, her brows crossed with concern.

"I don't even know why," he said it as if he were trying to brush off the memories, to trivialize it. "They were just two more on a long, long list, but…" he shook his head, lips pressed together, absorbed with the thoughts that must have been plaguing him since he arrived.

"But…?"

"But they were good citizens – ideal, even if they…" There was boundless frustration in his tone. "They were duty-bound; they followed the rules to the letter. They would have given anything – gladly – out of loyalty to the Throne. For the Emperor's lifeblood, they handed over their own daughter without complaint. They weren't heretics, they weren't even corrupt. All they did – their only crime – was trying to start a family they would've raised to be just like them if circumstances were different."

"They weren't different, though," she reminded him gently, and soothed, "you only-"

"I only vented their corpses into the Void after I murdered them," he spat it harshly, his breath coming with a hard sound of inhalation each time. "I only added them to the list, never thinking about them as human beings, as real people, until it was over. I became this cold, detached…" he searched for the right word, but it didn't come. "When I've killed – every time I've killed – there has been a purpose to it: a real purpose. That's all I felt until they were gone because I was sure – so sure – that there was something else, some unspeakable crime that needed the vengeance of Him-on-Terra to come down like an Astartes Thunder Hammer, and trust me, I looked. There was nothing. _Nothing_. And then I realized that I had no idea why – I hadn't given a damn why because I had thought I was so righteous – and it was too late. _It's too fucking late_." His hands slammed into the table and he stood up with alarming speed, leaning over it, over her, vicious in, "So don't you dare tell me you know-"

"That you've been awake for goin' on – from yer symptoms: I'm guessin' here – seventy-two hours and absorbed with self-recrimination for the majority of it?" she shot back at him. "That you've been holed up in my apartment for three nights with nothin' to do but hate yourself for every second of it?" There was fire and pity in her gaze as she emphasized every word, "I have _seen men's minds_ break apart from less."

Those ice-blue eyes were boring into her with the rage of a cornered feral beast and he opened his mouth to snarl something back but she cut him off with a fierce, "No." He glowered at her and she, too, stood up. "No, you are goin' ta answer one question for me, Throne Agent. One." Her palms were set on the table and she leaned towards him, refusing to back down as she demanded, "Would you _ever_ do that again?"

She saw his pupils dilate, startled by the question; the rage died in his eyes right there. She watched his head fall forward a little, leaning heavily into the table now. He looked away from her, staring down at his almost-empty plate. After some time, his shoulders, which had fallen before, slowly squared, his back straightened, and he lifted his head. His gaze, his stance, his voice – they were filled with tempered, blued steel and quiet resolve. "No. I am no assassin, no mercenary, no sellsword. I am a soldier. I fight for a cause."

She watched him for a long moment and then, as if the entire thing had only been a scene from a play they were enacting and had now completed, a smile with perfect white teeth broke across her face, forcing the apples of her cheeks up. She sat back down and picked up her mug, crossing one unfairly long leg over the other and taking a sip.

He stared down at her for a long moment, the atmosphere charged with the memory of the argument and her self-satisfaction. "You-"

"Are a doctor," she finished for him, the smile turning from smug to gentle in an instant.

He nodded thoughtfully and sat back down to finish his meal.

* * *

He was sitting on her couch when she exited her room, dressed for work and set to leave. He didn't look up. She could see his hands moving across her coffee table. His gloves were off now, she supposed to avoid messing them, and she noticed one of his hands had a soft golden sheen to it; fully articulated and functioning with all the nuance of a natural hand, this was truly a masterfully crafted augmentic. She took in the area of his wrist, the sleeve rolled slightly, and saw no seam – it must have gone up further; a small part of her idly wondered how he'd lost it, and what else he'd had replaced, but it seemed particularly coarse to ask.

Her eyes drifted back to his hands and it was then that she realized he was cleaning his pistols, broken down into parts and laid out in precise order. He was wiping residue off a barrel briskly, and she sat on the sofa's armrest, quietly announcing, "So, I'm off ta work now."

He nodded, still not looking up. There was a single-minded focus to his actions, and his hands moved surely, probably having done this a thousand times before.

Clearing her throat, she mentioned, "I, uh – I'm gonna be out later'n usual. Friend needed leave so I picked up his shift."

He nodded again.

"If you get hungry there's some bread – cheese – couple slices'a roast."

She received another nod as he began to reassemble one of the weapons.

He was acting strangely, even for a Throne Agent. Hoping to draw him out after their little therapy session over breakfast, she offered helpfully, "Do you want me to bring anythin' back for ya?"

He shook his head slowly, reattaching the slide and letting it shift back into its proper place.

"Right… I'll, uh – I'll see you later then," he still hadn't looked toward her and a nervousness began in the pit of her stomach. He was still peeved at her. The self-proclaimed and proven killer residing in her living room was still peeved at her. That prickling sensation that had woken her when he first came here was back, but now it wasn't concerned about gazes at her hind-quarters. It was wondering if she'd jostled him enough to call his master. Maybe he would change his mind… Maybe he wouldn't want her anymore. Maybe she'd pushed too hard this morning, or asked too many questions. There was nothing she could do if that were the case, and there was only one acceptable outcome for an Inquisitor that paranoid. With an unsure trepidation, she bid, "Have a good day." She rose to move toward the door, even had a hand outstretched for her lab coat on its peg.

One of his hands closed firmly around her other wrist and her head whipped around to him. He was staring up at her, now, with those ice-blue eyes piercing her, still shadowed underneath, his face still grim, troubled, practically screaming out to her. Yes, there was a mask of neutrality but she knew human musculature. She knew where to see emotions lying beneath that. She carefully arranged her mouth into an appeasing smile and raised her eyebrows as if to prompt him to explain. His lips slowly mimicked hers, and though it was forced, the smile itself was particularly charming. "You, too," he murmured, and released her.

She left her rooms quickly and didn't look back.

* * *

She opened the door to her quarters carefully that night and kept her front toward the room. He was still on her couch, forearms resting on his knees, fingers laced together. His head had been hanging forward until the door opened and he faced it with an uncanny speed; the tension that had suddenly coalesced into his form eased out upon meeting her eyes. He even attempted a smile. She locked the door behind her and moved into the room, one side of her mouth quirking up to him as she gave a small wave and passed him, headed toward the kitchen.

She reached up at a cabinet and turned her head to ask over her shoulder if he were hungry, but only got so far as, "Gav-" because he had followed her silently and was standing right behind her. She jumped like a cat out of its skin and twisted to face him, her heart going into overdrive and her eyes darting down towards the pistol strapped to each thigh and then back up.

He must have found this amusing because an easy smirk was lighting his features and he took another step forward. Now, Trixie Gunn was particularly tall for a woman, an aspect she enhanced regularly with what even the vainest of women would call impractically high heels (which she hadn't gotten around to taking off yet), but Gavin Hortz was staring down at her from a superior height and his tone was ultra-calm and slightly smug as he replied, "Yes?"

Her turquoise eyes were searching his face for traces of danger, of what had alarmed her this morning and set her on edge in his presence now. It was there, beneath the smile, temporarily forgotten: distinct unease and deep exhaustion. It was a problem, yes, but it didn't seem to be an immediate danger. No, just like the circumstances under which they'd met, if he'd gotten an order to dispose of her for being unwanted, knowing too much, or just plain pissing him off, he could have easily gotten the drop on her as she came through the door. This was him reaching out to her, asking for something else entirely. She just wasn't sure what it was. She carefully licked the seam of her suddenly dry lips and quirked them up to match his. "Hungry?"

He leaned forward slightly, his arm – the natural one – coming up beside her, hemming her in. "Famished," he whispered, and opened the cabinet she'd originally intended to with a rakish grin. He pulled down a tin of vegetables and offered it to her. Her fingers wrapped around, brushing against his, and she pulled it back towards her, but he didn't let go.

She tugged on the tin again, and when she couldn't free it from his grip she insisted with a laugh, "I thought you _just_ said you were ready for me to start dinner."

"I said," he corrected as he released the tin to her but didn't step back, "that I was hungry."

"Then you," she put two fingers to his chest and pushed him a step back with a playful smirk, "should've eaten the leftovers."

* * *

"You, uh… you think you migh' get some sleep tonight?" She was standing at the sink, washing the dishes from dinner. It was nearing the end of the first watch, but she knew if she let them sit they'd never get done.

He was close to her side and handed out his plate with a wordless shrug, as if to say that it didn't matter. She snatched it with an eye-roll and a bit of sass and scrubbed at it, mentioning as she rinsed, "I might be able ta help with that part, too. There's a whole gamut'a tricks up my sleeve." She glanced at him over her shoulder with a half-smirk, "I _am_ a doctor, you know."

"What would you recommend?" he was drying the cutlery and placing it back in its drawer, watching her with interest.

"Warm milk, too much amasec, incredible sex, an incredibly borin' book, back rub, soothin' music, belladonna and poppy, a stronger cocktail'a goodies from the pharmacy, or a combination of any of the aforementioned items, though I'd suggest not mixin' the milk'r drugs with the amasec," she rattled off the list like it was something she regularly conveyed to patients complaining of insomnia.

He seemed to be considering each item in turn as he dried a plate, mulling them all over. She was inspecting his face, watching the nuance of expression, waiting… And there it was: she could practically _see_ the mental double-take at one of the listed items and couldn't quite help the impish chuckle that escaped her. With an almost predatory smile, he leaned over her as she faced him, resting against the sink, and put the plate away just past her head before he replied, "Sex, back rub, and amasec sounds like a particularly effective combination of treatments. Not necessarily in that order, of course…" he paused, looking away thoughtfully for a moment, and then turned his face back down to her, "On second thought that order sounds just fine to me."

"Massage first," she told him firmly, crossing her arms beneath her generous bust while half-smiling up at him. "I don't want you pullin' anythin'."

He lifted both brows, ceding to her statement with a playful, "Whatever the doctor orders."

"Oh," there was something both enticing and vaguely threatening in the shine of her eyes and the wickedness of her grin, and she hooked one finger beneath his collar, twisting it and drawing him a little closer as she breathed, "Don't tempt me, darlin'."

* * *

"Damn shame," she murmured, some five hours later as she shifted the sheet to cover her chest and reached over Gavin Hortz's prone form to silence the first sound of her morning alarm.

He was still panting a bit from their until recent exertions, and still hadn't gotten any sleep, but his eyes were closed and he didn't even crack one to watch her as he answered with a quiet, "Hmm?" that sounded just on the edge of slumber.

"Never did get around to that amasec," she softly chuckled and smoothed his sweat-dampened hair off his forehead fondly. She lifted herself from bed and approached her closet to retrieve her clothing for the day. Work was going to seem interminable after the double shift she'd pulled yesterday and not a moment of shut-eye, but him sleeping the entire time she was out was the best progress she could ask for.

From across the room she heard a mumbled, "Later…" as he turned onto his side, and a corner of her mouth quirked up as she headed for the shower.

He was sleeping soundly when she peeked through the door just before she left for work.

Progress, indeed.

* * *

Things had settled into an easy rhythm in the following week. She had begun to quietly wrap certain things at work up, files and studies and extended patient charts, and organized them carefully so that when someone else came in to take over for her, the transition would be fraught with none of the typical upheaval. She wrote, signed, and sealed letters of recommendation for Maggie and Thad, and a brief missive to the Chief Medicae Officer stating that her best successor would be Lourdes, though anyone else could perform her duties satisfactorily except for Khaan.

Things had settled at home, too, which was to say that the good Mister Hortz had settled into her bed and an easy camaraderie formed between them now that he was sleeping and exercising regularly. She didn't ask many questions about what would happen when they reached port, about her future master, about what would be expected of her – those were all things she would find out in time, and she had a strong suspicion that he wouldn't be particularly loquacious or possibly even know for sure. He did, however, amuse them both with at-times hysterically gritty details of some of his previous missions. She honestly hadn't thought that a Throne Agent could be this… human. But then, Trixie mused, she'd been chosen, too.

She had playfully winked at him and blown him a kiss as she left for work that morning after reminding him it was a fairly slow-scheduled day, and she might make it back for lunch. Now she was in the office, compiling a list of procedures she thought this or that intern needed to repeat, along with suggestions for fields of specialization. She had, sometime in the past week, ceased to think of it as _her_ office, as that she would be losing it soon – and after all that work to get it, she'd be essentially handing it over without a fight to keep it, without fuss, without even a word or writ of her intent to leave. Though Gavin had never said, she got the distinct impression that she wasn't supposed to mention this to anyone. If someone needed to know, they'd be informed. She couldn't quite imagine –

The ship shook violently beneath her in the middle of her musing. Her hands came out to steady herself as she closed her notes, locked them in a drawer, and stood quickly, canting her head to one side. The ship shook again and she swore as the general alarm rang out. This was no drill. With alacrity and purpose one couldn't quite imagine for a woman in heels that tall, she strode from the office into the adjoining operating room where one of the lower-ranked churgeons was busy with a broken arm. The ship shook and alarm sounded once more and she interrupted the man with a sharp look, sedated his patient, and called up the stasis field.

Now, from many years aboard a warship, Doctor Gunn knew there were a great number of things that could cause a general alarm: failure in any piece of machinery, inappropriate oxygen levels, fire in a hold, or… her heart fell. That was a security alarm, followed quickly by a breach and then boarding. This… this was bad.

Magdela ripped through the office to find her and gasped, "I don't think it's a drill." Trixie nodded tersely to confirm that and strode back into the office, pressing the vox for the medicae bay. Her voice came calm and firm as she announced, "Attention medicae, any delicate work, you stasis immediately; I need reports stat."

Nothing had been damaged, no one harmed more than a jostle, but no one knew what was going on. She called to the nearest provost station, but received nothing more than a static line. There was something on the ship. She didn't know what, she didn't know where, and the in-house line was clamoring with everyone turning to her for instructions. Some of the veteran staff had recognized the alarm and explained it to the others. Panic was rising.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she motioned to Maggie to join her. In a low, terse voice, she instructed, "I need ya ta work crowd control for me, love. Got it?"

The girl obviously had no idea what she was talking about.

Trixie took her by the shoulders. "Go aft. Start collectin' everyone you see's you work yer way abeam." Thad walked through the door and she turned her head quickly before looking back at her other intern. "Bring'em all up here to the foremost bay, closest to the gangway, then drop the e-bulkheads t'ward the exterior'a the ship. Anythin' hits the outside I don't want you sucked out, right?" The girl nodded tremulously and Trixie kissed her forehead before releasing her. "Good girl. Now go."

"What can I – _damn_ that's a big gun!" Thad had moved toward her and she toward her desk, unlocking a file drawer and pulling out a standard, loaded hand-cannon and spare clip.

She pushed them into his hands and barked, "Come with me," before taking off toward the gangway. Once there, she opened the door and scanned the halls that created the T-junction here. There was some minor structural damage, but otherwise things seemed intact. People were running about without purpose or direction, but she couldn't see any pressing threat. "You know where the neares' provos' station is?"

He looked around blankly for a moment and then faced toward the hall across from them unsurely. She grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed down the hall he faced with her hand flat. "Down there – past vendin'. Turn right, end'a the hall. Anyone you see don't have a station ta man, you send'em here. Take this," she handed him a portable vox, "find ou' wha' we're up against and bring them guards back here." He took a step to move off but she grasped the sleeve of his shirt, jerking him around to face her, her eyes blazing. "Thad, you run like you never done it before." He nodded once, took a breath, and bolted off.

Down the adjacent gangway she heard a panicked scream, followed by the sound of a few shots. She sprinted towards the sound of the fray, pointing the people she passed back towards the bay with hissed instructions. At the end, she peered around the corner and her blood ran cold. There were surprisingly few bodies, but all those on the ground had been irreparably pierced by splinter rounds. Beyond them was uninhabited space and further beyond was the enemy, some dragging captive humans back and others advancing.

She pulled back quickly, bolting back toward the office to see the provost arriving just as she did. The sergeant motioned to her and conveyed tightly, "Doctor, you should join your staff, we've been boarded-"

"By Dark Eldar," she snapped, pointing to the direction she'd just come from. "They're down there. Anythin' human left from the direction you came?"

"Just these," he pointed to perhaps a dozen and a half people tagging with them.

"In there," she opened the door to the office; it was the only way remaining to access the bay where the other people huddled. As they passed, she scanned faces, realizing that there was one she'd expected not among them. Sealing the door, she turned to the sergeant with a dreadfully quiet voice, "My intern?"

"Captured, Doctor, you need to-"

"Your men have grenades?" He nodded dumbly. "There's nothin' we want comin' through from that direction, so you pop a few and take that passage out. This way we only gotta worry 'bout the one."

The men complied and the sergeant took her by the arm. "Ma'am you need to-" there was an inhuman screech at the end of the hall and she turned to it just in time to let three splinter rounds sing by her head. Unfortunately the sergeant wasn't so quick.

Cursing and shaking his spasming form from her, she growled at the provost squad behind her, "Stay clear. Get into cover." There was a small group of the boarders gathering at the hall, having, it seemed, realized that there was more prey down this direction.

She tilted her jaw until her neck cracked. Cords of muscle down her arm were hardening into something stronger than bone. She glowered down the hall, planting herself, and her teeth sharpened into tiny daggers, growing so long she couldn't close her mouth past the snarl curling her lip.

She knew what was coming.

They advanced.

_This_ was why she didn't cower with the medicae staff.

_This_ was why she couldn't lie to little Ellie Reiker when she said she was a monster.

She was.

* * *

_You've got to be shitting me._

It was the only coherent thought that had accompanied the alarms. By the time the boarding call had rang out, he'd thrown on all his gear.

_Of course. Because nothing could ever be __**simple**__…_

He couldn't lie to himself: he may often grouse about it, but this fight – the good fight – was what he lived for. Doubt, recrimination, sweet indulgence – he had room for none of them as he fulfilled his purpose. From the moment he opened the door to the hall, the universe pared down to him, his weapons, his enemies, and his goal. Nothing else mattered.

By now he'd made it to the deck the medical bay occupied; he'd slaughtered every single xenos mongrel he'd come across; he'd paused long enough to pull the uniform off a dead provost so he wouldn't have to sneak around; when the opportunity presented itself he'd even saved a few non-essential people.

Non-essential, that was, because the only legitimately essential person was one impossibly hot blonde doctor who had better be keeping her stubborn head down in a sealed room somewhere. If she got herself killed – if she got captured… well he might as well just hand himself over to the Dark Eldar for torture and spare the geriatric the trouble. The old man hadn't sent him here 'to kill the Reikers and, if you get around to it, Gavin my boy, be so good as to pick the churgeon up.' They were equally primary objectives. Her safety was on him. The fact that they were separated by miles of ship and an unknown number of foes would mean nothing to his master if he failed.

So here he was, tearing through oddly deserted corridors, following signs for the medicae bay. There were signs of struggle lingering, las blasts on the walls from missed shots, blood spatter and pooling, a body here or there, but significantly less than on the decks he'd passed through on his way. He also didn't see a single one of the vile little xenos bastards, didn't hear screams from the living being dragged a-

What was this, now?

Rounding a corner (the plaque said the medicae bay was at the end of this hall), he stopped short; there was a pocket of them, half a dozen, tearing at a wall of slag and scrap that cut off the path to the infirmary.

_Like fish in a barrel._

Two of them were down, twin shots from his twin bolt pistols sailed down a forty meter hall into the back of unsuspecting heads with what sounded like a single pistol report before the noise alerted the rest and spurred them to turn. A wave of splinters and a pair of shuriken sailed at him and he ducked back around the corner, narrowly avoiding them. What he wouldn't have given for his auto-cannon right now. But no: undercover missions meant you kept your head down, didn't bring anything that would attract attention, and that meant no grenades…

One of the Dark Eldar breached Gavin's cover and he picked it off with a clean shot to the throat. A wicked curved blade flashed around the corner toward his neck, but he grabbed the frail wrist holding it with one hand, wrenched it away with the other, and drove the blade through the pit of the arm he held and into the chest cavity with a satisfying squelch. The skewered corpse absorbed the next volley as he advanced down the hall, employing it as a shield.

Now a bolt round wouldn't have time to prime this close to a target; he'd made a point of explaining to V the very first time they met: it would pass clean through then prime, leaving the target with a through-and-through but nothing as devastating as a full hit would be. Of course, after it passed through point-blank, it would prime. That was why he placed the end of the barrel to his meat-shield and fired through it semi-auto. The Dark Eldar he'd taken aim on dodged from the first two shots and _into_ the third and fourth; it slumped against the slag-and-scrap wall with a muted gurgle.

Deciding that he'd had quite enough of this, he roughly shoved the corpse at its only living ally and used the temporary distraction to crack his augmentic fist into the thing's temple. He ripped the helmet off, revealing the loathsome bone-white face with unfocused eyes, and proceeded to pound its face with his metal hand, past the crunch of facial bone and dribble of blood from the nostrils, until he was quite sure fragments of skull had pierced brain.

Dropping the last corpse, he looked to the makeshift wall blocking his progress and both cursed and blessed whoever had the foresight to obstruct the passage. Backtracking to where he'd entered the floor took far too many long minutes of him full-on running; there was only one other direction available from there, so he continued on, finally glancing an arrow and the shipboard symbol for the med-bay. He tore down the hall, the sound of stray shots echoing down the eerily empty passages at him, until he reached the end and peered around the corner.

The first thing he noticed toward the end of the hall was that there was, quite literally, a span of perhaps fifteen meters in which xenos corpses contortedly, gorily splayed knee-deep. Five of the filthy things were wading through this obstacle to reach beyond where…

He began moving before his mind even wrapped around what he'd seen. Beyond the littered terrain there was a ten meter break and then waist-high cover, behind which the provosts were crouched; they sporadically popped up to take poorly-aimed shots. In that ten meter break there were currently three Dark Eldar, closing in on one human – specifically the one human upon which his entire mission hinged. And she was…

He took a quick second to aim and one of the five encroaching foes crumpled to join its mangled mates.

In the melee zone he watched with a sort of morbid fascination as the woman – the _sweet_ woman he'd come to claim for Mordekai – held one of the xenos scum at bay, one hand extended to it in a clenching gesture he was at once sure had everything to do with the constricted alien form, its eyes bulging obscenely, face purpling from lack of breath. This gesture was negligent, though, compared to the brutal, impossibly ripped and hardened opposite arm, which cracked into enemy skull, sending its owner careening away. The third took a swing at her with a dagger he knew must've been coated in lethal poison; it ripped into her belly, slicing through the already half-shredded fabric of her blouse.

As if this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, she snatched the thing by the chest of its armor, dragging it to mere inches from her, and sank her mouthful of two-inch long fangs into its jugular, clamping her jaws together and then shoving the thing away, tearing out its throat and splashing near-black ichor across a face already smeared with the blood of her enemies. With her distracted, the second warrior sank a curved blade almost halfway into her shoulder. Her face snapped toward it faster than he'd ever seen or imagined she could move, and she spit its comrade's blood directly into its eyes. Now _that_ was a move that brought back memories.

It staggered back as she dropped the lifelessly crushed corpse, focusing with burning eyes on the one sole survivor in range. At first he thought nothing was happening to it, but its face was reddening, purpling. She looked on contemptuously as it shivered violently; he knew: she was boiling its blood in its veins. Its heart and brain detonated from its body, and just as casually she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The wounds in her newly exposed flesh mended as if nothing had touched her.

A volley of sad shots came from the provost retinue behind her, missing pathetically, and he dropped another advancing foe. Her eyes landed on him, clearly berserk, and she growled, "Git yer ass back in cover," arcs of lightening shot from her off-hand, sizzling through the warrior closest to her, "an' hold the line."

He chuckled at that, felled another two, each with a well-aimed shot, and waded through the bodies to stand next to her and fight.

* * *

Later, when the whole ship had been cleared, the wounded flowed into the bay like an incoming tide. She'd put Maggie and one of Lourde's interns on triage. Twenty-four hours into cleanup, she'd ordered half the staff to go and rest. When they returned, the other half received the same orders. Trixie herself, of course, operated and stitched and detoxed and dosed for three solid days before someone insisted that the over four-thousand casualties were now well in hand and shouldn't she really go get some rest? Wearily, she nodded, knowing that when they made port, delayed only by a few days, she would be leaving, and all the careful preparation she'd lain out to handle the transition of her departure would be next to useless.

* * *

"Your impression, Gavin?" The crackle of the vox only enhanced the characteristic gravel of the voice.

That woman… after her coquettishly soothing presence, after she'd bullied and tricked him into addressing his guilt, after she'd outrageously "administered insomnia therapy", after her uninstructed discretion, he'd been so sure he knew exactly what he'd be handing over, had convinced himself he knew all that Trixie Gunn had to offer. The carpet of dead bodies, the dirk-like teeth dripping with xenos blood, the hundred and twenty-odd survivors tucked safely away behind her, and seventy-two hours of tireless doctoring to clean this mess up had forced him to consider he'd been very, very wrong. V was a biomancer: he'd seen her smash and bite like that, but he knew she drew a line; he'd found out firsthand that whatever compunction his partner had that stopped her from crushing internal organs and boiling blood, Trixie Gunn lacked. V fought like a soldier: utterly focused, tactically cunning… the doctor fought with abandon. She fought like a rabid monster. He met the Lord Inquisitor's eye through the pictscreen, and replied, "Honestly? We need her a lot more than she needs us."

And the shadow of a smirk passed over the corner of Pieter Mordekai's mouth.

* * *

_Ah! I'm so sorry I forgot spacing breaks! Here! Fixed!_


	4. One of These Things

_A note from Your Friendly Neighborhood Geist:_

_As promised, meet V, Lord Inquisitor Mordekai's apprentice before Ellie's mother was even born. She's been mentioned a couple of times in both Of Worth and by Gavin in Doctor Trixie's story, so now seemed like a fairly good time for you all to get the answer to Ellie's curiosity regarding his last apprentice. V's bound to show up in Of Worth sooner or later (hint: it's sooner than Gavin will, at least), so here's a glimpse of what inspired Pieter to take her in. _

_All the best,  
_

_-G_

* * *

**Burning Bridges**

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other

* * *

My name is Amelia Verda; I am fourteen years old. It's been ten years to the day since I last saw my sister. Today is our birthday. I hope that wherever she is, she knows that I'm thinking about her, about how I lost her, about how I miss her...

Happy birthday, 'Annie.

* * *

'Leave it, 'Annie!' I thought it as harsh and sharp as I could. With the sound of traffic from the ever-busy Terran market street at the end of the alley, I knew it was too late to say – or even yell – anything out loud. I didn't have to, though. 'Annie always knew what I was thinking. She was under the impression that because we were twins, we were exactly the same. She wouldn't believe me when I told her I didn't know what was going on in her head. She thought I just wasn't listening hard enough, and that always hurt her a little. So I'd gotten good at figuring out how she felt from just a glimpse.

I didn't have to read minds to know that I was being ignored.

"That's OURS," 'Annie said in a flat, unfriendly voice (I remember I hated when she used that voice). She was standing ominously over the group of five boys, all bigger than we were – maybe six or seven years old, who had ripped the simple data slate we'd gotten for our birthday out of my hands. 'Annie hadn't even been playing with it – she was off playing Corporal in an ongoing game of Guards versus 'Nids with a dozen other children. But she knew the second there was a problem. She tore down the street towards me and took in the situation with one glance, setting herself between me and the group of boys. Then she approached the circle they'd formed, crouching around the slate, poking the screen too hard and trying to load programs they shouldn't. I was afraid they were going to break it. Funny, the things that matter when you're four.

"Go play in traffic, Verda," Carter, the ringleader, drawled over his shoulder.

"Yeah, Verda," Larson, the meatiest boy, parroted.

They couldn't tell the difference between 'Annie and me – then again, neither could our parents or our brother Matteo. To be fair, even now if I look at a pict of us together, I can't tell who's who. But I wouldn't have been caught dead standing up to a group of boys twice my size. 'Annie didn't back down from anything if she thought it would protect me. She took after our father like that: a fearless little Imperial Guard Drill Instructor in training. Carter, on the other hand, wasn't the biggest of the boys – or the oldest, or the toughest – but he was the smartest, and the others automatically deferred to him.

"Give it back, Carter," 'Annie barked in a voice that sounded just like Master Sergeant Dorian Verda. I think he would have been proud.

"Not bloody likely," the leader turned around and leaned too close into my twin's face. She didn't flinch.

"I said," she used a deceptively mild voice, enunciating and emphasizing each word, "Give. It. Back." Carter looked like he was about to come up with a snappy little line, but then she hissed, "Now," and his face blanched. His entire body began shuddering like he was fighting some force – internal, external, I couldn't say – that had wrestled his body into submission and lifted the arm holding the slate. Then, with a quaking hand, he pressed it into 'Annie's slim fingers.

As soon as our birthday present was safely in her hands, Carter slumped forward and took a gasp like he'd just run up ten flights of stairs. All I could see was the back of Annie's head, but I'd bet my allowance for a year that her wide, exotic, slate-gray eyes were boring into the boy as she softly offered, "Thank you."

She turned back to me, letting a devilish little smile touch the corner of her mouth, and she held the present out to me. My brain barely had time to register that there was danger, but that must've been enough of a warning for her. She dropped into a crouch just as the meaty kid's fist whistled by where her head had just been. She passed off the gadget with a soft, underhand toss that fell right into my grasp, even though I'm pants at catching things. And then our mirror-image eyes locked. There was a message in hers. 'Run,' her expression ordered, 'hide.' She didn't want me getting hurt.

I sprinted around a corner, ducking beneath a vending cart, certain that she was right behind me. She wasn't, though. I crawled to the edge to peek at what was happening and my heart wrenched in a vice. Two of the boys were holding her arms while the biggest one hit her in the belly, over and over. She was crying and trying to wrench herself free. I wanted to run out and make them stop. I was going to run out and make them stop. And then she spotted me with wet eyes, and she stood straighter, frowned, shook her head subtly. 'Don't,' she as good as said, 'they'd do the same to you.'

"Whatcha learn, Verda?" Carter demanded when the other stopped punching her.

She coughed a wheezing gasp and then spat a gob of blood and spittle that landed on the boy's cheek. She cried out, "We don't take what's not ours," as one of the others grabbed her long, sleek black hair and pulled hard, holding her in place while Carter punched her in the mouth. I didn't move. I couldn't move. I still feel like a coward – maybe if I'd done something she'd still be here.

She screamed once as her mouth welled with blood, and then she sprayed crimson and teeth in one of the lanky little lackey's faces. His hands reflexively dropped her right arm, coming up to wipe the red sting from his eyes. I could only look on dumbly as her smooth, slightly chubby arm turned into something that belonged on a grown man. Her face changed, too, something terrible twisting her features just beneath the surface.

I had never, ever been afraid of 'Annie. She was the one person that I knew – that knew me – in ways that no one else could ever understand. But in that second I was terrified. It took everything in me to not run away.

The boys around her let out gasps of fear, some of them falling back a step. The boy with her blood on his face even ran away, right past my hiding space. She swung that too-big arm around, clocking the boy holding her left side in the temple with a vicious snarl and sending him sprawling to the ground. And then whatever had changed her face passed, and she rounded on the boy that had grabbed her hair. She swung at him twice – faster than I'd seen anyone move in all my life, until then or since – and contacted a blow once in the stomach and once in the throat. He, too, crumpled in a heap.

She turned on Carter, taking a running start and hurling herself at his legs, knocking him over. She crawled up to pin him, rearing up and whaling methodically, rhythmically, at his soft spots – his belly, his neck, then under his arms when he raised them to hit her back frantically anywhere he could reach. Somewhere in the fray he gasped out, "Larson!" and the boy shambled over. When he found he couldn't yank my sister off his friend, he started kicking and stomping at her unprotected lower back.

And that was when I saw him. The enormous, bald man with a glowing red eye wearing black and gold power armor came striding down the street right towards us, with a purpose in his steps like he knew exactly where he was headed. He paused as he came abreast of the alley and turned his head, exposing a jagged scar across his throat while his one normal eye narrowed. His shadow fell across the three of them, interlocked and panting with wet, wheezy gasps.

'Annie noticed. Her face lifted to the man and after a heartbeat it mutated with this expression… I've never seen anything else like it: intense, focused, determined, desperately yearning intent that lit up her eyes. If I could have heard what she was thinking then, I think I would have known I'd already lost her.

Her moment of distraction was rewarded by Larson kicking her so hard that she fell forward onto Carter, and then Carter's forehead slammed into the side of her face with a crack that convinced me she had a broken face bone. Something dry and blue like electricity sparked in 'Annie's eyes and then at her shoulder and her arm before the armored man's chin lifted a few degrees. Three small, bloodied bodies were jerked into the air, separated and spread-eagled, hovering almost a man's height off the ground.

He strode forward, again with purpose, directly toward 'Annie, and stopped maybe two feet from her. Their faces were level now, and his deep, rumbling voice announced, "That will be quite enough."

He inspected her, then, taking his time, looking her over like our father might look over a recruit for defects. He completely ignored the two boys hovering on either side of her. After a moment, he slowly lowered her to the ground. Halfway through her descent she gave a choked cry of pain, coughed on impact, and then wiped her bloody mouth with the back of her hand before drawing herself up to attention. He stepped to one side, and I saw that the crushed bone on the side of her face and the black eye had all but vanished, and the terrible noises she'd been making while breathing were gone, like she'd been completely healed in the time it took to float down five or so feet.

The man said nothing for a long time – too long, it seemed, and that entire time his uneven gaze was spearing through 'Annie like he was appraising everything about her. I would've fidgeted uncomfortably under that scrutiny, but she welcomed it. Finding, it seemed, whatever he was looking for, his eyes snapped over to the two felled boys, and a subtle shift of his gauntleted fingers drew them up to hang mid-air next to Carter and Larson. They both groaned as they came around, then panic overtook their features.

"It seems," the man with a voice like thunder growled at the boys, "that you have no problem with big people hurting small people. So I'm sure you won't mind…" Larson's arm twisted a bit and he squealed. The man looked down directly at 'Annie and offered almost graciously, "Shall I?"

Her face was stoic, and she swallowed carefully before replying, "No, Sir, thank you."

"No?" The eyebrow over his augmentic eye lifted like he didn't quite believe her, and with a flex of his hand, the floating boys yelped in pain, their arms and legs stretching out agonizingly like they were on the rack. "Mercy for those who harmed you?" His eyes flicked up to them and then back to her, his tone heavy with, "Tell me why."

"They stole, Sir," she answered clearly, "and I made them give it back. They hit me. I hit back. They've stopped," she paused, taking the opportunity to look up at the floating boys, "I stop. That's all I wanted."

That last part wasn't true and I knew it. Making them stop was her second priority. She wanted it because she wanted to make sure they wouldn't hurt me. As if to confirm what I was thinking, her eyes swept over to me on their way back to center. 'Stay there,' they said, 'wait.'

The boys continued to whimper for a moment and they, too, dropped back down, though not quite as gently as she had. The minute they were on the ground they righted themselves and scrabbled away, completely oblivious that I was hiding not a meter from where they passed. Once it was clear I crawled out of my hiding place, standing just at the corner and peering around it.

The man was looming over her. "Tell me your name, little soldier," he ordered.

"Verda, Sir," she answered crisply.

There was almost a bite of impatience in his timbre when he clarified, "Your full name, child."

"Dorianna Verda, Sir," she amended.

"Do you know what I am, Dorianna?" even though she was standing stock-still I could see the flinch from the use of her name at her nose and the corner of her mouth. She hated 'Dorianna.'

She let it go, though, as she inspected the heraldry and insignia on his armor and mantle, the 'I' everywhere in black and gold. I knew, but she must not've recognized it, because she replied with a completely sober, "Important, Sir."

He gave a short, mirthless, rumbling chuckle and explained, "I am an Inquisitor Lord."

Lifting her chin, she queried, "Am I in trouble, sir?"

"Not right now." He took a knee (even with that he towered over her) and explained, "You have a talent, Dorianna, one that needs training."

"How I made Carter give back our present, Sir?" she wanted specifics.

"And how you knocked those boys out even though they were bigger than you," he offered.

'And how you always know what I'm thinking,' I thought.

She looked past the Inquisitor to me and asked in a sad sort of voice, "But you don't?"

"Yes," he replied, "I do – which is why –" He paused and followed her gaze over his shoulder to me. He only glanced at first, and then he took a longer look, turned to 'Annie, then back to me. We were used to the double-take. His wasn't funny at all, though. After a second or so he answered, "No, I'm afraid she doesn't." She swallowed hard, frowning as he finished, "Which is why you need to come with me."

"I don't want this talent, Sir," she said it like it was a medal or a mission she could just turn down.

"If you don't control it," he answered with subtle impatience, "it will control you. _That_ is how you get in trouble." When she said nothing, he used one finger to lift her chin with gentle practicality, "People with strength and talent, like you – like me, we don't get much choice. The Throne needs us to serve – to keep mankind safe – like you've kept your sister safe. Without people like us, people like her get hurt. Do you understand?"

She nodded with a shuddering breath. I understood, too. He was going to take her away. I couldn't help it; I started to cry.

"Good," he said. "Now go. Say your goodbyes. I can't promise that you'll ever see her again."

'Annie ran to me with her arms out, folded me up in them, and pet my hair. "Shh," she whispered, "don't… Don't cry, 'Lia, it'll be okay. You know I'll always be listening." I sniffed hard and tried to be strong like her. She held me tighter and murmured, "I'll always be right here. I won't let anything bad happen to you. Not ever." She brushed my cheeks dry with her thumbs, blood caked in the creases of her knuckles, and she kissed me.

He touched her shoulder and she turned away, her hand lingering for as long as she could before he bid her, "Come. And don't look back."

I watched her as long as I could, until they rounded a corner and slipped out of sight, my heart breaking the entire time.

* * *

Dorianna Verda woke with a start, bolting up in her bed aboard the Litany of Flame and placing her scarred right hand flat over her racing heart. She leaned forward, taking deep breaths, and then her fingers curled in tightly, bunching up the fabric of her undershirt. She glanced at the chrono on the nightstand. She was fourteen. It had been ten years. She fell back, closing her eyes while her head contacted the headboard with a 'whump.'

And even though no one was there, she sighed and whispered into the darkness, "Happy birthday, 'Lia."


End file.
